“Hell Hath No Fury” feels like a story written on rails. Following the familiar grooves of the Western genre, ticking boxes rather than breaking new ground. The plot rolls along steadily enough, but there is little to intrigue the reader.

The main issue lies with our protagonist, Hawk, who - despite the very many trials and tribulations thrust his way - remains frustratingly distant. We spend half the book circling him, catching only fleeting glimpses of his character. Even when we finally get closer, it is still just scraps, fragments that never quite add up to a fully fleshed-out man. He is competent and stoic, but his interior life is non-existant.

The moral landscape is equally stark, painted in absolutes. Hawk’s nemesis, Roy Nestor, is pure villainy, without a single redeeming feature or complexity. He's shit at his job and sneers, bullies, and kills, offering nothing in the way of nuance. Everyone else falls neatly into their roles, good or bad, with no shades of grey to complicate matters.

When the violence begins, it comes thick and fast. Bodies pile up by the final page, yet every single one of Hawk’s kills lands squarely in the realm of self-defence. It is too tidy, stripping the story of any real tension or moral ambiguity.

The dialogue, meanwhile, rings hollow. While Hawk himself avoids the usual prejudices about Native Americans, their own dialogue leans heavily on tired stereotypes. It feels less like a window into lived experience and more like something borrowed from old films.

“Hell Hath No Fury” delivers the basics, gunslingers, vengeance, and bloodshed, but never steps outside the lines. It is the literary equivalent of a tin badge, serviceable and polished, yet ultimately hollow.

⭐ ⭐